Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
My voice trembles and I stop, because I don’t want to cry. Not when he’s being, well, himself. Crying won’t solve anything. It just makes me weak.
“Fine. Please continue servicing me.”
I regret ever thinking his dick was pretty. I regret ever being nice to him. For a moment, I regret saying yes to Lachesis when she came to me with her bargain. But then I imagine David with his degree. David as a doctor. David with a family.
With a heavy sigh of my own, I put my hands in his thick hair again and continue washing it.
“Rub like you did before,” he demands.
“No. I’m still mad at you. I’ll help you wash but I’m not doing things you like if you can’t even be civil to me. Fucking rude. I’m not a shoe.”
“Fine. You’re like…the goat.”
That makes me pause. “You like the goat.”
“Yes. He’s charming in his ignorance. I like that he is always happy. That nothing seems to make him miserable. And yet…he still irritates me. He smells and prances about far too much. He shits everywhere. He tries to eat my clothing.”
And in his eyes, I’m like the goat. Am I offended by that? I have to consider for a hot moment. I guess a human would seem like they’re eating and shitting everywhere, compared to a god that does neither. “I’ve never tried to eat your clothing.”
He huffs. “Not yet.”
That earns him a wry snort of amusement. “You’re still an ass, for the record.”
“And yet we are still bound together,” he agrees. “Stuck with one another, as I believe you said once.”
Yeah, I probably did. I scratch his scalp a little—just enough that he won’t bitch about it—and pull back. “Close your eyes so I can rinse your hair out.”
It takes two rounds of hair washing and me making another trip out to the well in the darkness before I’m satisfied that his hair is clean. All those silver locks are dense. It’s a terrible tangle, too. I pile it atop his head and scrub his back, calling out instructions so he can bathe himself in the future. I give the rest of him a quick once-over (except for the groin, because fuck all that) and pull out the last clean blanket so he can wrap himself in it.
Once he’s out of the water, I dump our dirty clothes in it. I’ll have to rinse them a couple of times with more water, but for now a little soaking can’t hurt. “Come sit by the fire and I’ll comb your hair for you,” I say to Kalos. “Once we’re dry and clean and the laundry is wrung out, we should probably go.”
“If you’re worried about rot, I can probably do something about that,” he says mildly, but moves to sit by the fire.
Well…I wasn’t worried about rot until just now. Ugh. And given that the floor is all wet, I have no idea if that’s going to speed things along or not. “Nice of you, but it’s not the rot I’m worried about. It’s the angry villagers finding out that their favorite surly fisherman has been killed. I don’t want them coming after us. We’ve got enough problems.”
He grunts.
I apply the comb to his hair and immediately Kalos hisses and glares at me. Someone’s got a tender head. I eye his mane of striking white hair and hesitate. “You ever think about cutting this?”
“I never think about my hair at all, no.” His tone implies that I’m stupid for even asking.
“Okay, well, now’s the time.” I touch one gnarled wet clump. “I can detangle this for you, but with long, gorgeous silver hair, you’re going to stand out like a sore thumb. If we cut it short, you’ll just look prematurely gray or something.”
“Are you saying I’m too attractive to blend in with villagers and fisherfolk?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying, actually.”
He huffs, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or irked. “It’s just hair. Do what you like with it.”
“Then you’ll let me cut it?”
Kalos shrugs. I touch his tangled wet locks again, considering. It really is beautiful hair, but it also makes him look pampered and taken care of. Sleek. Elite. Not looks we’re going for. Unfortunately, there are no scissors to be found anywhere, so I take the one knife I’ve managed to locate and experimentally cut one lock of hair. I have to saw at it to get it to cut, and wince with every hack of the dull blade. But this isn’t about being pretty. This is about survival.
“You’re very skittish about my hair for being the one who suggested I should cut it.”
I grimace even as I lift another handful to saw at. I’m cutting it down to an inch or two away from his scalp, and it feels like a travesty. “It’s just really nice hair. Can I ask a question without seeming rude?”